


Curatin'

by allonsytastic



Category: Doctor Who (2005)
Genre: Artists AU, F/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-03-05
Updated: 2017-04-15
Packaged: 2018-09-28 09:04:00
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 7
Words: 9,099
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/10083650
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/allonsytastic/pseuds/allonsytastic
Summary: He's wearing shades and a beard to obscure his face. I'd still recognize him anywhere.(Clara Oswald, art student - meets John Smith, hermit artist.)





	1. Shades

**Author's Note:**

> Do I know anything about art? _No._  
>  Will that stop me from writing fanfiction about artists? _Never!_  
>  :D
> 
> This is written from Clara's POV. Enjoy! :)

He's wearing shades and a beard to obscure his face.

I'd still recognize him anywhere.

It's the eyebrows, you see. The wrath of a thousand Scotsmen wrapped into a pair of brows is pretty hard to hide. _Or ignore, for that matter._ From what I've heard, he's not half as intimidating as he seems from afar, but since you generally hear very little of _"John Smith - genius scientist turned hermit artist"_ , that's not necessarily encouraging.

I make a conscious effort to keep my gaze locked at one of the paintings on the wall, not wanting to be noticed. It'd make me seem like a weird stalker person if I tried to approach him _now_ and his reputation suggests he'd rather be left alone anyway. It's just that it's hard to ignore if you happen to run into your idol in the middle of a desolated museum. Also, there's not much space to hide in a succession of mostly empty rooms.

 

Given his background in the natural sciences, you might expect his art to be mathematical or dominated by some sort of geometrical order, but it's not. He's not letting himself be confined by a certain style but instead likes to traverse the landscape of artistic freedom, borrowing techniques from art movements here and there, seeking inspiration in diversity.

There are a few recurring themes in his body of work, though. He obviously _adores_ space - the infinite expanse of the universe, the scale from the atomic to the planetary. And - for some reason - he seems to have an affinity for the design of the _'police boxes'_ that were scattered across London and parts of Britain throughout the 1960s. They keep turning up in his paintings and poems - even in his sculptures - almost as if he is trying to make a point.

I've yet to come up with a conclusive theory of how to interpret their seemingly random appearance throughout his artistic career. Maybe they don't mean anything. Maybe he's just trying to throw us off. I wouldn't put it past him - from what I've read, he does have an idiosyncratic sense of humor.

To conclude: John Smith is _quite_ the fascinating character.

 

It would be an overstatement to say that I've met him before. I'd been attending the opening of a festival for modern arts about six months back - one of the rare occurrences on which he made a public appearance - and caught a glimpse of him from across the lobby. He didn't seem entirely comfortable with the attention he was receiving from the press and practically vanished as soon as the first part of the exhibition was openened. I thought I'd spotted him in the crowd of spectators later on - hiding behind a pair of sunglasses and a baseball cap - but I'd attributed that to my overeager imagination.

It doesn't seem so far-fetched now that I've met him again. Who knows, those might even be the same shades.

 

I risk another glance to find that the object of my consideration is about to continue to the next room of the exhibition. I don't want to be obtrusive and so I decide to stay behind and give him a little head start before moving on myself, keeping a respectful distance.

This little one-sided _'dance'_ goes on for a while, until - as I am once more about to step into the adjoining room - I turn the corner....

... and there he is. _Waiting for me_. Looking at me from behind his shades, his brows drawn together not in anger, but in curiosity.

 _"You've been following me."_ he states rather matter-of-fact.

_"Well, this museum is quite linear, there's really only one way to go."_

_"Hmmm."_ He looks around as if to verify my excuse. _"I guess you're right."_

I take heart _and_ my chance. After all, how often do you get to talk to an internationally acclaimed legend of the art world? _"I do recognize you, though. You're John Smith."_

_"Well, I suppose that statement applies to a lot of people. There seem to be quite a few 'John Smiths' around."_

I hesitate, uncertain of whether he is making fun of me or whether he is actually serious. It's hard to tell, not only because of his shades, but because he seems to genuinely be considering my words. There's a pause and before I can find a fitting response to his remark, he proceeds.

_"So... 'John Smith' - that's me accounted for. But what about you? With whom do I have the pleasure of speaking?"_

 

We get talking and I end up telling him about my own artwork and my course of studies at university. He's surprisingly easy to talk to, once you get over the initial strangeness and his eccentric approach to conversation. And what's more: he is an amazing listener, attentive and evidently interested in what I have to say.

Being a lateral entrant with no academic background in the field of art, he's never gotten an art degree himself - and so he's all the more interested to hear about the current curriculum and lectures. When I mention my own current project _(a sculpture I'm working on for my master's thesis)_ , he practically floods me with questions, fascinated with my approach at the medium.

The conversation eventually turns to contemporary art and I have to get a grip on myself so I don't stray from the subject and launch into a gushing praise of _his_ body of work. Somehow he doesn't seem like he'd appreciate being put on some kind of pedestal.

 

Considering that we're at an exhibition for modern art, we naturally start commenting on the paintings around us. John takes off his shades, grins and points at a painting on the opposite wall. _"Well, what do you think of that one, then? The 'Portrait of a Farmer'?_

I'm trying not to be rude, but he's chosen a painting by Harold Saxon - an artist I could never quite get behind. Saxon's obvious contempt for people has always rubbed me the wrong way and this particular piece is no exception: it's a mocking depiction of a farmer in front of a vast industrial machinery that - according to Saxon - renders the farmer's existence obsolete.

I could pretend, feign pseudo-intellectual understanding and recite some snobbish textbook-style analysis of it - try to appear clever and praise the bold lines or ponder the superposition of the shadows in the background - but if I respect John even half as much as I keep telling everybody, I won't lie to him.

_"To be honest, I've never wholly understood Saxon's approach to portraits - what is he trying to achieve with all that defocusing? I coudn't pinpoint the key aspects of any of his works if my life depended on it. It feels as if he's trying to appear intellectual instead of actually considering his environment and making a valid point."_

John lets out a hearty laugh. _"I feel quite the same. Met him once... he's a strange fella. Though that might not count for much coming from me, considering my reputation."_

I reciprocate his grin and there's a pause. We just look at each other - smiling, unsure of what to say next. John takes a deep breath, hesitating for just an instant before making a decision:

_"Would you like to get coffee?"_

 


	2. Roaming

When John and I first met, we immediately hit it off. We shared the same predisposition, the same passion for art and the ability to get completely obsessed with a single piece for days. Thrilled to have met a like-minded art enthusiast, the two of us soon made a habit of touring the town's museums together on the weekends. We'd be looking at a painting, getting into endless discussions over the interpretation of the colour schemes, the arrangement of objects or perspective - and losing ourselves in details. We'd forget about the time and - more often than not - we'd end up being shooed from the exhibition by an annoyed watchman as the museum closed.

Weekends at the museum turned to afternoons touring the city, which turned to catching a play or a movie every now and then - which turned to generally spending time with each other most days of the week.

Roaming the city with John was never boring - or predictable. Quite often, we didn't end up where we originally intended to go - but not once did I regret joining him on one of his little expeditions. We preferred to explore the urban environment rather erratically, changing direction and destination on a whim, letting ourselves be guided by intuition and generally taking the 'road less traveled'. Wherever we went, there was always something _new_ to see, even in places I had frequented in the past and had thought to know like the back of my hand. We made a game of it - pointing out little details along the way, which the other might have otherwise overlooked.

It was at times like these that John's background in the natural sciences stood out the most. Drawing from his extensive knowledge of natural phenomena and from his time as a research scientist, he always had some amusing facts or anecdotes to add - just like when he told me that he'd once accidentally mistaken an electron microscope for a microwave and _(unsuccessfully)_ tried to heat up a pack of lasagna. _(After that remark, I jokingly reconsidered my choice of acquaintance, but came to the conclusion that his otherwise brilliant wit and peculiar charm more than made up for the occasional absence of mind. Besides, overlooking the troubling implications of combining highly dangerous scientific equipment and abstracted scientists, it was really quite an adorable story.)_

 

And then there was this instance a couple of weeks back: We were on our way to catch a nighttime screening of an old black-and-white movie, when John spotted a weird light in the sky, somewhere over the fields at the other end of the neighborhood. He threw me a questioning look - asking if I was up for a little detour - and, interest piqued, we decided to abandon our cinematic endeavour in favour of the mysterious phenomenon. Like investigative detectives, we came up with theories on the origin of the light - albeit some were more ridiculous than others. Amongst our theories, there was the obligatory suggestion of _'aiens ("Finally! Always wanted to ask them about their opinion on Surrealism", John added, grinning),_ as well as  _police helicopters chasing a criminal on the run_ or the scientifically rather 'creative' idea of a _'stray extension of the Aurora Borealis'_.

When we finally reached the source of the effect, it took us a second to realize what we had walked into. Right there, in the middle of the field, was a busy crowd of people buzzing about - running across the area, laying out cables, pushing carts filled with filming equipment and setting up cameras. The light we'd seen was generated by a bunch of drones flying about, illuminating the field and submerging it in an eerie white glow. In the middle of all the hustle and bustle, an enormous dish-shaped construction was being set up. It really did look a bit like a spaceship - if you ignored the fact that it was obviously made from wood and cardboard with bits of plastic and a chain of holiday lights glued to the sides.

The one thing we hadn't guessed was that we'd stumble upon the set of a science fiction series during a nighttime shoot. And when we finally grasped what we had found, it took no more than for us to look at each other to send us both into a fit of laughter.

 

_"You know, Clara, for a second there I really thought we'd stumbled into an alien invasion."_

_"With a cardboard ship? What sort of rubbish aliens would that be?"_

_"Oi, cardboard is an incredibly versatile material!"_

_"Yes. For construction of artwork, **not** for interstellar travel... **This** is essentially an oversized paper plane... And I thought **you** were supposed to be the 'sciency' one..."_

_"Oh, but wouldn't that be great? Origami shuttles flying off into outer space? If I've learned anything from my scientific work, it's that - well... it's that nothing will ever work on the fist try (and if it does, that's just plain suspicious). But that's not the point right now. What is far more important is that I've also learned to **never say never**."_

I wanted to reply then, but he just winked at me enigmatically, effectively stopping my brain in its tracks and leaving me to wonder whether I would ever truly figure him out.

 

_Like I said before - roaming the city with John was never boring or predictable. And I never regretted accompanying him on his excursions._


	3. Art/Work

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I decided to split today's part into two chapters, since there was what felt like a 'natural breaking point' right in the middle. So... two chapters today, I guess :)

Notwithstanding his reputation, John was quite approachable and fun to be with - though I soon realized that this side of his character only extended to a limied set of close friends. It seemed that he had a hard time trusting people and seldom made new acquaintances. I don't know what made him make an exception for me, but I was glad to have him in my life.

Sometimes, John would pick me up at the studio where I was working on my final project for uni, and we'd stroll around the nearby park - finding a strategically well-placed bench to settle down and do some people-watching. He usually brought sweets and when we were sat there, nibbling on jelly babies and wondering _how on earth it was possible for a 4"11 pensioner to walk two giant Saint Bernards_ , I couldn't think of a better way to spend a sunny afternoon.

 

Not long after our chance encounter in the museum, John had been asked to arrange an overview of his Oeuvre - a self-review looking back at the beginnings of his work as well as the progression up to the present day. John had been reluctant at first - feeling that an undertaking such as this was too self-centered, almost to the point of arrogance _(he preferred the focus to be on the art rather than the artist)_ but since the request had been made by an old friend of his, he couldn't bring himself to refuse.

John reckoned he could use a pair of fresh eyes to find the right angle from which to approach this project - and he felt that I was the right person for the job. And so it came to pass that mere months after we'd run into each other, he asked me if I wanted to work with him. He was incredibly respectful in his request - wanting to make sure that I had enough time to focus on my own work - and would not let his project interfere with my studies or my master's thesis.

Being in the middle of my final year at university, I was uncertain whether I could afford to take the opportunity at first. But to be offered a job practically _curating_ an exhibition would be a chance to gather invaluable experience and to be working alongside John would be a dream come true. I wouldn't be _Clara Oswald_ if I didn't stand up to the challenge. _I could do this._

In the end, it wasn't a difficult choice to make.

 

Going through years' worth of John's artwork proved to be an exhausting exercise. He'd always been quite productive and his conception of order was more erratic than consequential. As a result, his workshop was crammed with paintings, notebooks, unidentifiable constructs of metal, clay, steatite _(and... salt dough? ...)_ as well as an assortment of blackboards and whiteboards strewn across the room, covered in incomprehensible mind maps and flow charts.

Many an evening was spent trying to find order in the chaos that was John's personal work space. From time to time, we'd work through the night, losing all sense of time and being startled by the first rays of sunlight as the new day dawned. I'll never forget those early mornings watching the sunrise from John's workshop, enjoying the calm before the city slowly wakes up and rises from its slumber. Those moments when we were just standing together in front of the window, a cup of coffee in hand and a box of slightly stale cookies John procured from god-knows-where in his studio for breakfast. Those moments where there was no need for conversation, just for two similar minds to share the beauty of a new day.

John seemed to possess some sort of sixth sense when it came to detecting the slightest sign of exhaustion. Whenever he caught me yawning or stretching my muscles, he would miraculously appear with a cup of tea or coffee within seconds, offer me some time off, telling me to leave the rest of the work to him or inviting me out for a quick trip to the café around the corner _(which would inevitably lead to a stroll along the river on the way back and generally be the end of all productive work for the day)._

 

Meanwhile, my thesis project was coming along quite well. Despite the additional workload, I found myself more motivated than ever. Being able to work on an actual exhibition was electrifying and that enthusiasm was transferred into my own artwork. I'd been passionate about it before, but _now_ , I was _unstoppable_. I'd already had a pretty clear vision of what my centerpiece was going to be when I'd started it months back, but with all the technical experience I was picking up along the way at my new job, I was able to achieve a level of detail I had thought impossible before. My sculpture was slowly taking shape and a clever tweak of the construction allowed me to include a delicate structure of moving components powered electrically by a motor hidden in the base of the mode.

Looking at the progress I'd made over the past weeks, life as an artist no longer seemed like a faraway notion. My confidence was increasing and with each intermediate step I completed on my thesis project, I was closing in on my dream. I _knew_ I could do it and when I talked to John about _his_ first steps onto the stage of the fast-paced world of international art, he offered me a wistful smile, telling me I would find out for myself soon enough.


	4. Handy

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Never thought I'd have to use an internet search engine to track down "weird owl facts", but oh well.
> 
> Also, please excuse my phenomenal lack of creativity when coming up with a name for a café/bar. I'm truly sorry.
> 
> Anyway, thanks for reading :)

Despite having grown close over the past weeks, John and I rarely touched. It's not that we didn't enjoy each other's company, it had just never become a _thing_ we did. And it wasn't just me - in fact, I wasn't sure I had ever seen him physically interact with another person. He was uncomfortable stepping onto a crowded bus or travelling by public transport during rush hour. He seemed to be unconsciously avoiding physical contact, instinctively shifting ever so slightly in order to preserve his personal space whenever anybody threatened to invade it, without even noticing.

And so it would be fair to say that we were both rather surprised, when I grabbed his hand one late Saturday afternoon. It wasn't an arbitrary act, it was more of a reflex - some deeply ingrained survival instinct catching hold. We'd been talking animatedly on our way to the TARDIS café, a bar that was quickly becoming a favourite of ours. John had been walking to my right with his head turned to me, gesturing as he was trying to explain the fundamental theories he'd based his doctoral thesis on, as he turned to cross the street. I didn't even realize what had happened until a fraction of a second _after_ I had grabbed him and yanked him back onto the pavement - just in time to prevent him from being hit by a car traveling at a velocity somewhere far beyond the speed limit.

For a moment, neither of us said a word - both catching our breath and trying to comprehend what had just happened. John was looking at my hand, which was still linked with his, and then considering me with an earnest expression on his face. _"Thank you."_ was all he said - his voice, which was usually filled with confidence and resolve, now barely more than a whisper.

_Something_ between us shifted that moment - suddenly the atmosphere changed- though I could not say _how._ It was impossible to grasp, yet futile to deny. John seemed more sincere or contemplative than I'd ever seen him before. He was still holding on to my hand - his grip firm and awkward at the same time. For an instant, it seemed as if he didn't want to let go - but then he hesitantly did. The expression on his face was indecipherable.

 

I still hadn't said a word, uncertain of how to react - when John broke the silence, suddenly changing the subject and recounting some weird fact from an animal documentary he'd seen a couple of days back. _"Did you know that owls have three eyelids? Isn't that amazing? Imagine the amount of sleepy dust you'd have to wipe from your eyes each morning!"_

He went on to theorize on the utility of additional eyelids when applied to humans, but his tone was just a little _too_ upbeat and enthusiastic - his speech rapid and staccato, his voice just a touch higher than usual - to mask the underlying nervousness I thought I'd detected. I couldn't shake off the feeling that he was trying to distract himself - making up nonsense for the sake of having something to talk about. I tried to listen to what he was saying but I couldn't focus - still preoccupied with his initial reaction to the linking of our hands, his sudden diversion only serving to futher my confusion.

Seemingly both keen to avoid the subject, we resumed our way to the TARDIS café and didn't mention the incident any further. The afternoon passed with pleasant banter, but at the back of my mind, I kept replaying the scene from earlier, the feeling of John's hand in mine and the brief fraction of a second before he had let go. I tried to figure out the meaning of his exact facial expression as he did, but much like the man himself, it remained a mystery.

 

Throughout the following hours, we both tried to keep the conversation light, careful to avoid any sensitive subjects which usually lead to debate _(such as the significance of the invention of the ballpoint pen and its impact on modern art, on which our opinions were very much opposed)_ _._ There was an air of restraint around us, as neither of us dared to raise the subject of our brief but possibly consequential touch, uncertain of the other's reaction. It was a pleasant evening nonetheless, though a sense of tentativeness remained long after the two of us had returned to our respective homes.

One thing in particular was still puzzling me hours later: Sitting in the café, John had kept looking at his hands, flexing his fingers with his brow knitted and his countenance pensive. And _then_ , thrice during the course of the afternoon, his hand had _accidentally_ brushed mine. It had seemed _almost_ deliberate, his fingers lingering for just an instant. Each time, he'd _happened_ to be looking at me at the exact same moment, his gaze curious.

 

I didn't hear from John the following Sunday, which was rather unusual. Ever since we'd first toured the town together, he'd made a habit of texting me at irregular intervals during the day, to tell me about weird facts he'd just stumbled upon or random notions he thought might amuse me - and the sudden absence of his messages was surprisingly disheartening. I texted him sometime around _exactly thirty-two minutes and fifty-one seconds past two_ in the afternoon, asking whether he was up to anything interesting - but he didn't reply. More than once, I found myself staring at the screen of my phone, wondering whether I should just call, but decided against it. He was entitled to his privacy and I wasn't going to get on his nerves if he wanted to be left alone.

When I left for work at John's studio the next day _(there was still a pile of charcoal sketches to be looked through)_ , I grabbed a coffee on the way to aid me in the battle against sleep-deprivation and a temporary bout of motivational deficiency _(brought on by the frankly horrible weather conditions outside)_. I still hadn't gotten word from him. Forty hours without any communication whatsoever - I couldn't remember ever having gone more than twenty-four hours without exchanging at least a text message or an email with him since we first met.

Arriving at the workshop, I found the door locked and no sign of the artist himself. I dug up the set of keys he'd given me, having to try each individual key until I found the one that fit the battered old lock in the studio's door. An eerie silence welcomed me as I crossed the threshold. I'd never been to the workshop alone - for some reason, John had always been there when I'd come round.

Though I could have done a fair part of the work on my own, he was usually around to help. It wasn't that he didn't trust me or wanted to keep tabs on my work, I think he just liked to keep me company. Behind every piece, there was a story and whenever I was looking through the stacks of paintings and sketches, John would periodically come up with an anecdote - and more often than not, we'd end up exchanging amusing episodes from our experiences _(and failures)_ with different art styles.

But now the studio was empty. Crossing the room, I arrived at my desk to find an envelope with my name on it.


	5. Man of Mystery

_An envelope._ I pick it up and turn it over, hesitant to unfold the paper and reveal the contents. It's made from a sheet of drawing paper and upon opening it, I realize that John must have crafted it from one of his old charcoal sketches. I take a moment to consider the image before moving on to the message that has been scribbled onto the back: It's a rough study of an owl flying over a snowy winter landscape. I'm mesmerized by the way he's managed to capture the creature's eyes - they seem to be shimmering - giving off a warm, almost _golden_ glow even though the picture is in black and white.

It's not the first owl I've seen in John's collection - he seems to have gone through a kind of _'avian phase'_ some years back, as evidenced by the heaps of anatomical illustrations he's gathered from biological textbooks and magazines. I once even found a stack of photographs he made visiting animal sanctuaries all over the country, stuck between the pages of an impossibly old collected volume _(which was so worn down that the title was no longer legible_ _)._

 

Still, what concerns me now isn't John's _past_ obsession with owls but his very  _present_ attempt at epistolary correspondence. I flip the page and finally turn my attention to the note he's left for me. Despite John's usually talkative nature, the message itself is unchracteristically short, comprised of no more than a single line _(not counting an additional line of text which has not so much been crossed out, but practically obliterated with determined strokes of black marker)._

_Meet me* at Area 51**, tomorrow*** at 8****._

Even though there is only _one_ line of actual text, he's made quite a few annotations. It seems he's lost confidence about halfway through his note and decided to _better be safe than sorry_ \- his good intentions culminating in a set of footnotes specifying each individual aspect of his eight-word message. Let me just give you a quick outline of his remarks _(to give you the entire transcript would probably be overdoing it)._

 

> * The person denoted as _"me"_ in this case refers to _him,_ John Smith
> 
> ** _(In case I'd forgotten that we'd dubbed the patch of land on which we'd encountered the makeshift spaceship "Area 51")_ , he's specified the coordinates of the spot and attached a travel description to said location from both his workshop _and_ my apartment.
> 
> *** The specific date is listed in respect to a selection of calendars _(I think I'll stick with the gregorian one)_
> 
> **** The time _(2000 hours or rather 8 P.M)_   is specified including the time zone and a reminder to acount for daylight saving time

He's signed the letter as _'Doctor'_ , a nickname he's jokingly adopted after I've taken to calling him out on his tendency to drift off into scientific lectures during conversations. He usually complains when I adress him like that, but I suspect that he's secretly quite fond of it. He thinks I don't notice the tiny, proud grin appearing on his face whenever I do, but - well - _I do._

As for the crossed-out line.. that'll have to remain a mystery. For now.

 

It strikes me as somewhat old-fashioned to leave a note instead of calling or sending a text - but as a gesture, it's all the more charming. In an age in which communication has been digitally depersonalized and trivialized, a tangible paper note still carries weight. _Literally._

Throughout the following day, the mystery of John's note is ever-present at the back of my mind. I go about my daily routine, I tick off most of the items on my to-do list _(including a harrowing three-hour drive to get a particuar type of acrylic paint for my thesis work, which I've been putting off)_ , but the question of what he's got in store keeps preying on my mind. And what is most irritating of all, is that I can't even talk to John about it like I normally do whenever something keeps buggin me.

 

As Tuesday evening approaches, I make my way towards _'Area 51'_. I can see John waiting for me near the intended meeting point - he hasn't spotted me yet but seems to be engrossed in his thoughts. Walking in circles, looking at the ground and gesticulating, it looks as if he is rehearsing some sort of speech or address. Every now and then he stops, runs his fingers through his hair and starts over.

Lost in his own thoughts, he doesn't notice me until I'm _almost_ close enough to make out what he's saying. Just as I catch the word _'Realization'_ , he suddenly turns on his heels, looking up and immediately stopping in the middle of his sentence when he sees me. His hands have frozen mid-air and are now being unceremoniously shoved into the pockets of his coat in what is either a gesture of embarrassment or an attempt to divert my attention from what I might have overheard.

 

_"Clara!"_ He sounds practically surprised - as if he hadn't actually expected me to turn up.

_"John!"_ I mimic him good-naturedly. _"So what's this all about?"_

_"There's something I thought you might like to see"._ There's just the tiniest hint of nervousness in his voice. _"It's a fifteen-minute drive from here"_ , he adds, pointing at an old, battered bicycle which is leaning on a nearby tree with an enormous saddlebag slung around its handlebars.

He tells me to _'hop on'_ and when I hesitate _(uncertain of how exactly he intends to transport both me and the bag without falling over)_ , he gingerly points at his torso assuring me that I can _"you know... hold on..."_ to him. There's a brief moment of silence before I shrug, climb onto the bicycle rack and wrap my arms around John's slender frame.

This ist the most physical contact we've ever had. It's rather nice, actually. His body has the perfect circumference for me to hold on to - which is probably not the most conventional compliment, but quite fitting for an unconventional guy like him.

 

As we're riding along, John finally reveals where we're headed. He starts all the way back, telling me about how his fascination for outer space was passed on to him by his grandmother - a practical and self-sufficient woman with vast knowledge of the stars. By his account, he can't have been much older than seven when Grandma Smith first took him out to her allotment garden for a night of stargazing. I've seldom heard him talk of anybody with such fondness and reverence and it makes me wish I could meet her myself. John isn't what you would call a nostalgic person, but when he tells me that he could never bring himself to sell his Gran's garden plot, I can see why. And when he adds, that there's going to be a meteor shower tonight and that he wants to share that experience with me, I feel honored.

_"Your gran sounds like an amazing person. Why didn't you ever tell me about her?"_

His voice is solemn _"I don't like to dwell on the past."_ he pauses _"She's a long time gone, now."_

_"I'm sorry."_

 

For all the time we spend together, he never really talks about his past. Owing to his status as a public figure, the key dates of his life are well-known. But when it comes to personal details, he's always been reluctant. I can tell you his date and place of birth, but not his favourite toy or the name of his best friend growing up. I am once more reminded of the age gap between us. It's not a problem to me - I truly do not care about anybody's age as long as I get along with them. It's just that you tend to forget about it when you're with someone whose company you genuinely enjoy.

 

I decide to change the subject, opting for a lighter topic.

_"I didn't even know you had a bike."_

_"John Smith - international man of mystery."_ He winks at me.

Did.... did he just make an _Austin Powers_ reference? Never mind that age gap. That's more like a _cultural divide._

 

 


	6. closing in

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sorry for having suspended last week's update. Whouffaldi Week somewhat compromised my original timetable.^^  
> Anyway, thanks for reading :)

Our brief biking episode ends as we arrive at an allotment garden. It's a small plot of grassland enclosed by a hedge, which (by the looks of it) hasn't been cut back in a while. There are clusters of wild flowers scattered all over the property and, _much like my cycling companion,_ the site possesses a certain rugged charm - the patched-up shed in the corner only adding to the cosy atmosphere.

John produces two thermos filled with tea, an absurd amount of baked goods, a bag of jelly babies, two pairs of binoculars and a couple of blankets from the depths of his bag. I find myself reminded of Mary Poppins' inexplicably spacious suitcase and wonder if he'd be up for a trip over the roofs of nighttime London, accompanied by a group of dancing chimneysweeps. Then again - knowing him, I wouldn't be entirely surprised if he'd already _'been there, done that'. -_ That's the trouble with people like him - these sort of things sound both entirely ridiculous and yet believable at the same time... Pondering the notion for a moment, I realize that I never knew eccentricity could be _this_ charming.

Meanwhile, John hands me a pair of binoculars and shrugs apologetically. _"I'd have brought my telescope, but I think I sent it to a museum in Spain as a loan - built into one of the sculptures in my 'Spaceman' series."_

_"Aptly titled, if I may say so. And yes, I remember the one. Didn't realize it was actually yours, though."_

_"What do you take me for? A thief?"_ He tries to feign an expression of mock indignation, but fails miserably as he can't hide the amusement in his voice.

_"Well, now that I think about it... you never did pay me back for that coffee last week..."_ I retort with a look of perfect seriousness, proving once again that I'm the superior thespian by far. John grins and concedes in light of the evident perfection of my acting skill, adding to his appreciation of my performance by bowing to me.

 

He spreads out one of the blankets he brought with him and we hesitantly settle down. Considerate of John's personal space, I'm uncertain of how close I should get and consequently make sure to keep a courteous distance between us. Nevertheless, I'm suddenly very much aware of his physical presence _(even more so than during the bike ride over)_ , his regular breathing, the rustle as he absent-mindedly plays with his tousled locks and the heat that radiates from his body. It feels as if there's an sense of anticipation hanging in the air, though that might just be the prospect of the upcoming meteor shower.

Either way, I'm holding on to the moment. Whatever happens next, wherever life will take me - tomorrow, in a fortnight, in a year or in a decade - I will always keep the memory of this moment - the quiet serenity when there were only John and me - and the stars emerging in the darkening sky.

 

I've seen meteor showers before, but only from the roof of my flat where the effect was diminished by light pollution from the city all around. This time, however, there are no skyscrapers obstructing my view, there's no streetlights anywhere in the vicinity, and the only potential source of light is John's torch, which he's switched off and set aside for now. The night isn't entirely clear, but the few clouds that are gracefully arranged around the moon don't disturb the atmosphere, rather adding to the wistful feel of the occasion.

Watching the meteors illuminate the night sky from the dark is humbling, and for once I really don't mind the cliché as I tell John how tiny and insignifican I feel all of a sudden, coming face to face with the neverending reach of the universe. Considering me with a knowing smile, he doesn't have to say anything for me to know that he feels exactly the same.

I'm trying to think of an analogy for this cosmic experience, but I simply can't. Because... how could there be anything worthy of comparison to _this_? How could anyone on earth presume to measure this all-encompassing phenomenon against a _literally mundane_ parallel?

 

Whatever this trip is about, I'm not as naive to be ignorant of its implications. The occasion, the timing, the secluded location... To call it  _intimate_ would probably be an understatement. And yet here I am, still uncertain of how to behave around a man who seems to be sending some  _very unambiguous_ signs and who I undeniably find myself falling in love with.

Well. Hesitancy never gets you anywhere, which is why I decide to take a chance. Bracing myself, I gather all the courage I have to slowly move my hand to the right, my fingers tentatively inching ever so slightly closer towards John's. I'm telling myself that I'm entirely certain of _what_ I want to do even though I have no idea of _how_ exactly I'm going to do it and _what_ exactly I'm going to do next if I actually manage to get there.

Just as I'm about to interlace my fingers with his, a massive raindrop hits me square in the nose, making me jump and startle John in the process. The secod drop is soon followed by a third and fourth and within seconds, what seems like a formidable end-of-the-world-level thunderstorm is practically coming out of nowhere - forcing us to make a run for the pavilion in the allotment's corner, grabbing whatever we can before rushing inside. Thankfully, John manages to save his torch from the water and we're not left in the dark.

There's no way we're making it back to the workshop or either of our flats wihout getting utterly soaked and possibly stuck in the mud which must by now have taken over the field path by which we arrived.

 

Since we may just have to sit this one out, I take a look around the hut. It's actually more of a shed than a pavilion, but it does keep out most of the torrents, barring a minor leak in one of the roof's corners. I reckon we'll be fine if we manage to avoid the resuling trickle along the back panel, though.

Still, the structure is barely large enough to accomodate the two collapsible garden chairs John has grabbed from a mount on one of the walls and is now unfolding in a swift motion. He offers me the pair of blankets which he's hastily grabbed from his bag before dashing into the shed and points at one of the sitting accommodations.

_"It's not perfect, but you can probably make do if you spread those over it."_

I wordlessly hand one of the covers back to him, wrapping the other around me and making myself comfortable in the left chair, encouraging him to follow suit. Owing to the layout of the shed, our seats are set up next to each other so that we're sitting side by side. You'll never get bored when John's around and we keep each other entertained with stories of the worst storms we've lived through as we're listening to the weather raging outside. For the first time, John volunteers information about his past as he tells me how he'd been terrified of lightning as a child and how his gran had taught him all about the mechanics of thunderstorms so he wouldn't have to be afraid anymore.

It must be long past midnight when we finally doze off.

 

When I awake, I find myself leaning onto John. We must've both managed to unintentionally drift towards each other during the night and I've ended up snuggled up against his side with my cheek settled against his shoulder. I can tell he's awake as he suddenly tenses up when he realizes I'm no longer asleep. He's obviously trying to hide his reaction, but frankly, his impression of a sleeping human being is lousy. Acutely aware of John's need for personal space, I'm attempting to gently disentagle myself - when he stops me with a whispered _"Don't."_

His voice is low and insecure as he continues. _"Just - stay for a moment, will you?"_


	7. figuring it out

_"Just - stay for a moment, will you?"_

 

 

Time seems to have stopped. Even the dust particles dancing through the air all around us appear to have halted at John's request, forming a stationary dispersion of shimmering fragments in the early morning light cast through the shed's tiny eastward window. I hesitantly settle back against him, carefully resting my cheek against his shoulder, as he rests his against my temple. When he starts talking, it's barely more than a whisper - and yet I can still sense the vibration of his chest as he speaks.

_"Clara, I..."_ His breath hitches, forcing him to start over. _"... I don't know how to do this. I spent so much time holed up with my work, I lost my social compass."_ He gently takes my hand, pensively measuring it against his own and tracing my life line with his index finger. _"I've never been good at it, all that interpersonal interaction stuff. I can barely make sense of my own emotional mess, let alone put any of it into words..."_ He softly interlaces his fingers with mine. _"I'll try to explain the only way I can. I'm sorry - I hope some of it will make sense to you."_

 

_"Over the past years, a good many people have asked me about my transition from scientist to artist - about the grounds for my sudden decision to give up a safe job for a seemingly insane career choice. They're usually expecting some sort of shocking blow of fate or a kind of religious epiphany to be the reason for my decision, but that's just not what happened... I think they just can't accept that you can turn your life around on your own, without any exterior power forcing your hand...."_

_"... So when I told them the truth, none of them were ever content with the honest answer. With time, I got tired of explaining myself, so I fabricated a little story, a little white lie - telling them what they wanted to hear so I could have my peace. I made up a tale of taking a trip to the Louvre and having a revelation upon finding myself face to face with the old masters - a tale about a dramatic realization of having to become an artist. I tend to vary some of the details, but the general story has proven quite effective. The real reason, though, is much more sober and unspectacular - but I know **you** will understand, Clara."_

 

_"You see, there was this professor when I was still studying astrophysics. He taught advanced mathematics and every week, he'd end his lecture with a (usually quite demanding) mathematical or logical problem for us to work on until his next lesson. Those weren't mandatory tasks, they were just challenges, an offer for us to put our skills to the test."_

_"One week, he put down a single line of text. It was a logical question that time - innocent and simple at first glance, but of enormous complexity once you started actually considering it. I'd typically solve each week's problem by the next day, but that time... I just couldn't seem to make any progress whatsoever. Two days passed without me coming up with as much as a clue as to how I was to approach the question. It was preying on my mind - I got so obsessed I barely slept, spending every spare moment hunched over my notepad, scribbling away, feeling like I was striking through more lines than I'd even put down. I just couldn't wrap my mind around it - every time I thought I'd gotten close to solving it, I ended up finding contradictions in my reasoning."_

_"By the time the next lecture arrived, I'd given up on my pride - I was **so** desperate to know the solution - I just **needed** to know how it could be done. And then the professor simply told us that there **was no** solution. He'd given us a task that could never be accomplished. He said something about making us understand that not every problem had to have a solution, that - sometimes - you just had to accept this fact and lean back instead of trying to force the impossible - but I was barely listening at that point. I don't even remember storming out of the lecture hall... I was **so** angry - having lost a whole week to a nonsensical task. I felt mocked - like he'd deliberately made me waste my time for his personal amusement. I couldn't see the bigger picture, then... didn't get what he was trying to teach us."_

 

_"It was only a couple of years later - I'd established a decent reputation in the field of astrophysics, working in a respectable institute with my own research group - that the memory of this episode came back to me. We were doing an experiment - a simple measurement, really - that we just couldn't get right. Every iteration yielded different values - all the results were contradictory and none of it made sense. We tried everything - rebuilding the instrument from scratch, changing the measurement setup and the wiring, excluding every possible source of interference we could think of - but we never solved the problem. We never figured it out."_

_"It was driving me mad, until - one night, as I was falling asleep (in that half-awake-half-asleep state right before you drift off) - I remembered that peculiar old mathematics professor and his insoluble logic problem. And I finally realized what he'd really been trying to tell us. **Whatever you do - never forget that life doesn't always have to make sense to be appreciated."**_

_"When I woke up the next day, I remembered why I'd gotten into astrophysics in the first place. I'd always loved the thought of an infinite universe around me, when I was a child. Ever since my gran first took me out to watch the stars, I'd wanted to explore whatever was out there."  
_

_"You see, when I was a kid, I used to draw the universe - all those stars and planets and whatever else I imagined floating around in space. I never got much farther than some white or coloured dots (some with rings around them) on pieces of black cardboard, but I always imagined that those pictures were somehow... bigger on the inside, you know? It sounds daft, but I thought that if you'd just look from the right angle - if you could just zoom in close enought, you'd be able to see all the alien life on those bright dots."_

 

_"The day I remembered all those childhood dreams, I started doodling little stars and planets onto my work. I did it unconsciously at first, but soon realized that I just couldn't stop. Every time one of my colleagues handed me an article to proofread or a list of measurements to look over, they'd get it back with tiny galaxies and rockets scribbled next to my remarks along the sides. All the post-its around the office started vanishing as I kept grabbing every available piece of paper to doodle onto. I'd be drawing while I was on the phone, in my lunch break, sometimes even during meetings."_

_"Over time, my sketches go more and more elaborate - up to the point where I left my office one late night, to find that all I'd really been doing that day was designing a detailed depiction of a star system. And that was when I realized that I had to quit my job."_

_"Don't get me wrong - I still love science and astrophysics and I wouldn't want to give up those years of my life for anything. I just love being an artist more. I feel like I'm finally able to convey the wonder and amazement - not just the facts, but the **feeling** of the universe. I'm not trying to put my (quite brilliant) colleagues and fellow researches down - it's just that I realized that the institute wasn't the right place f or me to be anymore. So that's my story - it's not spectacular or dramatic, but it's true."_

 

_"The reason I'm telling you all this is... well, I made that whole mistake all over again. I've spent those past months **trying to figure you out** , Clara. Since the day we first met, I couldn't get you off my mind. I wanted to know what kept drawing me to you and - believe me - I came up with a lot of reasons... simple ones, like those (frankly enormous) eyes of yours - or ones that were more complex, like that brilliantly quick mind of yours (and how you don't necessarily know what I'm going to says next, but usually have the perfect reply anyway).... then there's your determination, your kindness and the way you just seem to **get** me like no one ever did. I could go on for days, but what I'm trying to say is: It's a million tiny pieces that captured me in their own way. And yet, they didn't form a complete answer to my question when I put them together. I felt like I kept missing something... and you kept surprising me."_

_"And then, when you grabbed my hand last week, I finally realized. I realized that I'd been a complete idiot this whole time... People aren't like equations or mathematical problems - least of all **you**. I'd made the same mistake all over again and gotten obsessed with solving a mystery that didn't need to be figured out, but appreciated instead. It would be an insult to try and 'solve' you, Clara and I'm sincerely sorry for being such an ignorant fool. I just wanted to tell you that I truly... **appreciate**... you."_

John pauses, exhaling before he turns to me, his gaze insecure and yet completely trusting. I've never seen him look this vulnerable before.

_"Actually, what I really want to tell you is that - I truly.... **love** you. Because that's that one thing I **did** figure out in all that time. And you don't need to say anything, I just wanted you to know that, Clara."_

 

 

For a moment, neither of us say anything. We're just looking at each other.

_Silence._

 

And then I smile at him. _"Come on, I want to show you something."_ I say, getting up and throwing off my blanket. I open the shed's door and take John's hand to lead him outside into the light of the early morning sun. He follows me - a little confused but willingly - with his quilt still wrapped around his shoulders like a cape. I can't help but grin because - as he's standing there, illuminated from behind by the sunrise - it really does make him look like one of those classic old-timey superheroes... _"Doctor Mysterio"_ , I think to myself, deciding to keep that name in mind for further reference.

I lean onto John's shoulder once more and point to the sky. _"That's the sun. It's between 147 million kilometers and 151 million kilometers from earth (depending on the date), and its surface burns at 6000 degrees Celsius. It's 4.6 billion years old. It started as a protostar and it will end as a white dwarf."_

I gently nudge him in the arm, glancing up into his eyes.

_"Do you know how I know that, John? Because **you** taught me. Because you let me see the wonders of the world by giving me **perspective**. Before I met you, the sun was just another star to me. But **now** I can truly appreciate the sheer magnificence of the fact that life on earth is possible because - somehow, in this immense universe - a giant star happened to be at just the right distance from our tiny blue planet."_

_"All those things you taught me, John... every little random fact, every weird or amusing tidbit of information, every anecdote - **that's why I love you.** All the times you made me laugh just by being your mad-sciency-artistic self - **that's why I love you**. And all the times you didn't say anything when nothing needed to be said - **that's why I love you, too**. There are a million other reasons I could list, and another million I don't think I'll ever completely comprehend. And as far as I'm concerned, I don't need to understand them, as long as I get to hold your hand and watch the sunrise **with you**."_

 

I get up onto my toes to whisper the last sentences before I gently kiss him on the cheek.

_"That's the one thing **I** did figure out in all that time. And you don't need to say anything, I just wanted you to know that, **love**."_

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> There we go, last chapter :D  
> I got an idea for a one-shot in this 'verse floating around my head, maybe I'll get round to it sometime soon :)  
> Anyway - Thanks for bearing with me and thanks for reading :)
> 
>  
> 
> ... also: is there such a thing as a 'social compass'? ^^


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